Escape Velocity
by Girl.Interpreted
Summary: He was the sun around which all these planets revolved. But, right now, he was just a sad little moon, pacing the blocks around Hawkeye's apartment, subject to her gravity, way beyond dreaming of escape velocity.


**Title****: **Escape Velocity

**Author****:** Girl Interpreted

**Betas: **Abaddon Nox and Sugar Pill - with patience so tireless I only wish I'd something worthy to lay at their feet.

'**Verse****: **FMA: manga and/or 'Brotherhood'

**Timeline****: **Post Bradley taking Hawkeye as a secretarial hostage, and post the revelation of Pride.

**Genre****: **A reflective, single POV, slightly angsty, but fairly "feel-good", Mustang piece — and, um, Royai-ish, with minor squinting. Doesn't that count as a genre now?

**Summary****: **He was the sun around which all these planets revolved. He was their great hope for a bright and shining future. But, right now, he was just a sad little moon, pacing the blocks around Hawkeye's apartment, subject to her gravity, way beyond dreaming of escape velocity.

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><p><strong>Escape<strong>** Velocity**

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><p>It was late when Roy left the office. If Breda had been there, he would have made a joke, expressing how flattered they all were that the colonel had taken the time from his busy social calendar for an after-hours date with Team Mustang. Then Havoc would have groused about the date <em>he<em>_'__d_ had to miss, and the damage this assignment constantly inflicted on his love life. Fuery likely wouldn't have said anything, certainly wouldn't have complained. Roy could imagine him crouching down by the dog, spoiling it with treats (the sort decreed contraband by Hawkeye), and looking genuinely pleased with their collective company, despite the extra work. And Falman would've silently soaked it all in, appraising the tableau, finally suggesting, as they all stepped out the front doors, that they should get something to eat. And by 'something to eat', he would mean 'several pints each, and a handful of peanuts at the pub'. And, of course, they would all know that, and nod their concord without further elaboration. And Hawkeye... Well, Hawkeye wasn't there, was she ?

_Hawkeye_, he considered as he pulled the greatcoat over his uniform, _is__ down __the __hall__, __or __already __home__, __but__ somewhere __close__. __Just __not __here__._ He wondered if Bradley kept her late. He hadn't asked. Of course, he hoped not, and yet, he wanted to run into her on his way out of the building. He wanted to see her quirk an eyebrow at his unprovoked overtime. He wanted to pass her in the hallway, not slowing down. She'd raise the eyebrow closest to him, he'd raise the corner of his mouth closest to her, and it would be a secret between them.

But he did not meet Hawkeye. Not in the hallway. Not as he pushed through the front doors and descended the stairs. He headed home, lost in thought, and it was a long while before he realized he was headed for her apartment, and not his own. He was startled for a brief moment, coming to an abrupt halt, before he realized it was Thursday, and therefore, even if he stayed late, it wasn't a night he'd spend out with his team (even had they been present); some part of his mind recognized her apartment as the habitual destination.

Thursday was the night they had dinner together, or rather, the night on which they engaged in culinary war. Always at her apartment, as (for reasons he pretended to understand, but honestly couldn't fathom) she felt uncomfortable with the idea of dining at her commanding officer's residence. He couldn't say exactly when or why they'd founded the tradition. He knew it had it's roots in his days as a student of Riza's father. It had been when his teacher had first begun to show signs of his illness.

_Ah__, __that__'__s __right__._ They'd been like estranged half-siblings then: she the product of a woman long dead, and he the child of alchemy, the _true_ great love of her father's life. And Roy wasn't blind, knew he was the favorite at that time, and so (with a degree of confused reticence regarding the emerging independence of his teen-aged self) he found himself wanting to make her happy. So mute and tragic she was in those days. And being a kid, and a boy, he'd no idea how to make a girl happy, so he'd insisted on taking a turn at making dinner.

Everything was burnt, inedible, and he'd ended up doubling her work for the evening. But, he'd made her smile. She'd made him laugh. And neither had known until that moment how badly they'd needed it, how lonely they were, each in their own right.

_So__, __that__'__s __how __it __started__._ He'd completely forgotten. On that night, as a boy/young man, he'd established his particular brand of crazy/abusive thoughtfulness in regards to her, ecstatic and inelegant.

They'd picked it up again after the war, when they were beginning to remember how comforting the presence of the other could be. How they could be together and not have to talk about— _the __war__, __the __guilt__, __the __dead__, __the __tattoo__, __the __pain__, __the __past__, __the __burden__— _anything.

Of course, every mistake he'd ever made was between them, and, he often felt, each a direct crime against her. As convoluted, tangled and emotional as his relationship with Hughes was (at least, beneath the facade they'd maintained from day-one), _she_ was the only one who was qualified to understand _and_ judge the person who was Roy Mustang. And yet, somehow, her company was never weighted by the past. Instead, everything about her spoke of the future, and she made him more optimistic about it than he really had any right to be.

Things settled. They adopted Havoc (his sarcastic phrasing, not theirs). Falman, Fuery, and Breda- Roy was a collector of secret heroes, hidden greatness. It was assumed his passion was for womanizing, but Hawkeye knew that the bulk of his charm (as well as his desire to please and be liked, his fear of rejection) was reserved for wooing his men to his cause. And beyond gaining their loyalty, he could not be satisfied until he had gained their hearts. (In those early days, she would tease him about his hopeless romanticism, how completely in love he was with his subordinates. And he would scowl, because he was still too young to take a joke laced with that much truth, and would turn from her, picking up the phone to make sure he had a proper date that night.) And as the six of them began to function as a unit, somewhere between a family, a fraternity, and a platoon (if such a thing existed), he and Hawkeye found that they no longer needed that time alone together.

The dinners petered off, and then stopped for several months. And then, they picked up again, every Thursday since the transfer to Central. _Because_, he thought, as the clench of his jaw caused his molars to squeak against each other, _Maes__ Hughes __was __buried __on __a __Thursday__. _

That day, Hawkeye (with her gorgeous/subtle tenderness, that managed to never offend propriety) had informed him she would be making him dinner, and he _would _be eating it. (Over the years, he'd developed a preference for restaurants with silver coffee pots and maitre d's, and she liked cafes with herbal tea and outdoor seating; however, on this trip, upon unspoken agreement, neither had wanted to eat in public, and so their lodgings had included kitchen amenities.) Her declaration of intent had forced him to acknowledge he hadn't put anything in his stomach, aside from water or whisky, in the past twenty-four hours. She was absolutely right, but the thought of eating was nearly more than he could bear, and so he'd made some peevish comment about how consuming her cooking would do him more harm than his current fast.

"Then, you'll make me dinner."

She hadn't missed a beat, and he'd been unprepared. So much so, his expression of cool indifference slipped a bit. Just the barest of blanches, the slightest shortening of the distance between his eyebrows and hairline. Her smile was nearly as imperceptible. "What do you think I've been eating since we arrived? If my own cooking is so dangerous, you should probably take over; though, if I remember correctly, you have a tendency to char everything, Mr. Flame Alchemist."

The statement was so boldly unlike her (too bold to be her?), and yet, in that moment (walking away from a patch of freshly laid sod, a block of stone, and a cloudless, brilliant, rainy day), it was so undeniably her. He'd laughed, choking (for barely half a moment) on an unexpected sob. She hadn't so much pretended not to notice, as had the tact to refrain from acknowledging it aloud.

"Do you like quiche, Lieutenant?" he'd asked, thrusting his hands into his pockets and turning the elbow closest to her out from his side. "Because, a friend of mine- his wife- she makes this recipe all the time, and he brags about it so often; I'm sure I know it by heart."

He couldn't really say why the relief and gratitude that swept through him was so acute when she'd taken the hint and threaded her arm through his. Her opposite hand had crossed her chest, fingers and palm firmly circling his bicep for leverage as her heels stuck in the grass. He'd reached for her elbow with his left hand (the other wedged stubbornly in his pocket, his right arm caged by the circle of her left), steadying her as she extricated a stiletto from the soil. He'd had this sudden, completely irrational fear of her being swallowed by the moist earth, and needed to be holding onto her with both arms. She'd spoken to him through the top of her head, through an arching wing of blond fringe, past down-turned eyes he could not see: "Our friend?"

He'd had to backtrack, remember that he'd said, 'a friend of mine,' before he could amend, "Yes, our friend." She hadn't responded, clinging to him as she picked her way towards pavement (undoubtedly, he'd been certain, cursing the impractical nature of spike-heels), awkwardly graceful with her weight on the balls of her feet. "Sorry," he'd added, because Maes didn't belong to him alone.

"I'm sorry," he'd said again, because he worried her too much, and because he'd insulted her cooking (which, actually, he couldn't remember ever having any legitimate complaints about).

"I'm really sorry," he hadn't been able to stop himself from saying, because he was relying on her to prevent him falling apart, because she'd put her own feelings for Maes aside to bolster him, because he saw how much he was asking of her but couldn't seem to stop himself.

Their feet hit pavement, and in the moment before she'd disentangled herself, became a separate entity once again, she'd gripped the parts of him that touched her with surprising intensity. He hadn't been able to look down at her as she'd turned her face into his shoulder. Instead, he'd purposefully redirected his attention to the first thing his eyes landed on: a small group of soldiers, smoking cigarettes across the street from them. Still in uniform, military dress. He knew they'd been at the funeral. Perhaps they'd been in the color guard. He saw a smile and heard a chuckle and noted that several of the young men were unbuttoned, and he'd wondered or warred over whether he should accept that life goes on or throw himself in a rage upon their disrespect. "Stop it," she'd hissed into his sleeve, and he'd frozen. "Don't apologize again."

Her voice had turned his attention. In the time it took him to close his eyes and draw a slow breath, he'd been aware only of her voice and the press of her side along his. His grief, and the strange thoughts it bred, had become a curiosity to observe in a way that was detached and harmless, and, some part of him knew, temporary. _This__ doesn__'__t __mean __anything__. __This __doesn__'__t __matter__. _And part of him had recognized the lunacy of going straight from his best friend's funeral to the crime scene where his best friend's blood still stained the ground, but there were things left undone.

He said, "I need to talk to a lot of people, regarding the murder." (It was the first time he'd called it "the murder" out loud, the first time he'd dared to acknowledge that Maes had not died, but had been killed.)

"You'll go straight from here?" she'd said. And from anyone else it would have been a question, laced with concern. But Hawkeye managed to make it a statement, with a perfunctory question mark tacked onto the end. It had been a reassurance, that because it was him (because it was _them_), they could do this right now. Funeral, be damned.

He'd nodded, even though he knew she didn't really need to see it. She'd been at his side, not touching (the physical contact had ended as easily as it had been initiated). And as she matched his long strides, it was with a grin that actually displayed teeth (nearly as rare as a snow leopard) that she'd said, "Be sure to leave yourself enough time for the grocery store, sir. I'm very much looking forward to my quiche."

So it was, that on the day of his best friend's funeral, Roy Mustang made his first lieutenant dinner.

Having eaten Gracia Hughes' cooking in the past, Hawkeye was full of good-natured jibes. The crust wasn't flaky enough. The asparagus wasn't crisp enough. The egg wasn't fluffy enough. And in a spontaneous (but short-lived) rage, he'd announced that if she was such a god-damned expert, then she could bloody well handle the next meal.

She'd smiled at his intense aggravation (as he'd been virtually void of emotion in the days since Maes' murder), and immediately agreed to his challenge (though, he'd never called it a challenge). And from that day on, every Thursday was a chance to show the other just how magnificent a chef they'd become, and how lacking the other was in comparison.

Back in the present, engaged in pacing Central's sidewalks, he noted, with an ironic little smile (a bit bitter, like juniper berries on his tongue), that it would have been his turn to cook. That is, if her transfer hadn't ended the tradition. He turned right at the intersection before he would have stepped onto her block, his hand in his pocket, his forefinger running over the teeth of her house key.

The object (_her __key_) startled him as if it hadn't been there for months and months. Like slipping his hand into his pocket and finding the ridges of a grenade. Again, he couldn't quite remember. And, swallowing around a suddenly ridged throat, he wondered, _When __did __we __exchange __keys_?

The first time had been in East City, hadn't it? What had the reason been then? This time, in Central, he remembered it had something to do with the dog. He really liked that dog, he'd told her, and was happy to take it out when she was caught up with something else. She had his because of something to do with the retrieval of paperwork, or the replacement of uniforms and ignition gloves. _Why __don__'__t __I __remember __it__, __the __moment __when __I __laid __a __key __in __her __palm__, __or __she __in __mine__? _He was sure, because it was them, that they'd had reasons that were perfectly professional, and only half of the truth.

_Maybe__ I __would __have __made __Beef __Wellington__. __Really __knocked __her __socks __off__._

Her apartment in Central bothered him. All those unpacked boxes. Days after the transfer, he had immediately laid claim to his own space. Painted the walls, replaced the carpets. Everything he owned seemed to find its own place , down to every book and cuff-link, as if they had always belonged there.

Her unpacked luggage, it scared the hell out of him. It made him acutely aware of how ready she was to leave.

He remembered the day of the funeral, when he'd turned to her and asked, _"_Are you coming with me?"

And without so much as a thoughtful blink (_damn__ her_) she'd replied, "Do you even have to ask?_"_

And to her utterly loyal, but completely emotionless face, what he did not say was, '_Yes__, __Lieutenant__. __I__ need __to__ hear __you __choose __me__, __out __loud__, __again __and __again__."_

And the part of him that defended his man-card argued that her response had been more than enough. But there was also the part of him (possessive, needy and, on better days, ignored), which quibbled over his relative importance in relation to everything and everyone else in her life. It measured his significance against a lifetime surrounded by genius alchemists and military luminaries, and found him (pathetically) lacking.

But then she'd offered him the insinuation of a smile, clearing his doubt (with a power that was beyond his experience of scientific inquiry), biting off any further assurances he might have felt compelled to seek. For some reason that defied an explanation he could accept (that wouldn't be insulted by his scientist's need to provide an explanation), she was wholly and utterly _his_.

That was the sort of magic Hawkeye possessed. And because it was magic, it made no sense to his ever logical mind. The moment she left his presence was the moment his fears reformed.

And oh, how he feared those boxes. And now, ironically enough, he found himself wondering— as he had every day and night since he'd called her to send flowers and heard the indiscernible-to-anyone-but-him _fear_ in her voice, since he'd learned Selim Bradley was also a hommunculus, since he'd seen the cut on her face and marks on her wrist and put two and two together and come up with an unpleasant sum— if he could convince her to leave.

He had kept walking since he'd passed her block, but he turned left at every intersection, orbiting at a respectful distance. What if he were to approach her? To knock on her door, and explain to her why it would be better if she wasn't in harm's way?

Previously, the notion had held court in a hidden (but influential) corner of his mind, but really, consciously, it was only half-acknowledged before this moment. Now, the option leaped to the stage of his Cartesian theatre, fully grown and well-armed. From the audience, his stomach reflexively jerked and flinched. His thoughts reeled. _Send__ Hawkeye __away__? __Ludicrous__! _

After all, they weren't unprepared. He hadn't come close to admitting defeat. He was going to take on the faux-human lie at the head of this country, its cohorts, the one who pulled the strings, and the entire Amestrian military machine in the process. He would do it with the same brash confidence he'd felt the very first time he'd glared up at Bradley from a spot on the sand, years ago and miles away, moments after he'd confided his crazy pyramid scheme to Hughes, and Hughes had promised to push him to the top. As bad as it seemed now, he had his strategies- well imagined, thought-out, balanced. There was a plan. It was brilliant. _He_ was brilliant. And yet, at the thought of her... _Oh __hell__._ Hawkeye was a warrior. She wasn't bemoaning her current situation. She was assessing the possible strategic advantages. She wasn't frightened in the least, right? Had no reason to be, of course, yeah? Because, nothing could ever happen to her. Nothing fatal, at least. _Not__ ever__._

His face was passive, and his steps were quick yet even, but his mind was swirling in ways he tried not to allow. He knew he couldn't convince her to leave on the merit of his argument alone. He couldn't make it an order. At least not one he could expect her to follow. But, maybe he could beg? If he got down on his knees before her, if he laid his forehead to the ground, would she be moved enough to go? He could arrange passage to Xing, and if she'd only be patient a little while, then...

Oh, how stupid. _Nothing __short __of __disgraceful__. _His thoughts had gotten away from him and he was horrified with himself. As if he dared to prostrate himself before Riza Hawkeye! Not for the sake of his own pride, but... Hell, he could hear her now: _"__And __should __we __collect __Kain__, __Breda__, __and__ Falman __as __well__, __sir__? __Oh__, __and __don__'__t __forget __Havoc__, __Gracia __and __Elysia__, __your __moth__er __and__ the __girls__, __the __Elrics__, __and __they __won__'__t __go __without __Winry __Rockbell__, __will __they__? __In __fact__, __why __don__'__t __we __just __clear __out __every__ innocent __Amestrian__, __and__ then __you __can __take __on __the __homunculi__ all__ by __yourself__? __How__'__s __that __plan__, __sir__?'_

Perhaps it's not what she'd say exactly, but it was close enough. He knew her well enough to approximate. And of course it was ridiculous. All of her expected arguments were obvious. Of course he didn't stand a chance on his own. He was suddenly as ashamed as if he'd actually dared to have that conversation with her, lamely arguing with her in his head, _'__I __can__'__t __lose __you__. __No __matter __what __else __happens__, __I __can__'__t __lose __you__. __It __would __be __more__ than __I __could __take__.'_

And the only reaction he could expect to extract from her might be a hard swallow, a flash of anger and betrayal in her eyes, before she'd respond, _'__Are__ you __actually__ saying__ that __to__ me__, __sir__? __Not __after__...'_

He knew very well that he'd been the one who said, _Never __give __up__, __lose __the __will __to__ live__. _ Honestly, the encounter with Lust had scared the hell out of him for one denial-proof, sleep-disturbing reason: Hawkeye's resolve to die in his trenches.

In the face of her huge, glassy eyes and exquisitely lush, alien, tear-streaked face, he hadn't found it in him to offer up the truth. Days later, he'd only been able to reprimand her for it, like a good superior officer.

He didn't like having the shoe on this foot.

_Well__, __hell__._ It had all been so obvious, hadn't it? _Buggering __Bradley__. _The bastard knew. Mustang and Hawkeye each had their self-contained, somewhat standoffish persona, but they'd never really been very careful.

'_As __long __as __they __can __harm__ you__, __I __can__'__t __move__, __can__'__t __think __clearly__. __And __if__... __if __something __happens__... __well__... __I__'__d __want __to __set __fire __to __everything __I __see__. __I__'__d__ lay __waste __to __the__ whole __goddamn __world __if__ you__ weren__'__t__ in __it__.'_

It occurred to him that he could get her to leave. That he could make it an order. Yes, of course, she'd refuse to follow it, at first. But, he knew the words. He knew what he had to say to make her biddable to his will. He had to suggest that she made him weak. That she wasn't helping him, but hindering him. That was Hawkeye. She had to be useful. She had to be a shield. This change in standing was killing her. He saw it in her eyes when they had the chance to meet. Part of her worried over how much of a burden she'd become. She hid every hint of pain or fear to avoid being just what she was: a hostage. A hostage, against him. It was eating her alive. And all he had to do was confirm it, and tell her it would be easier if he didn't have to worry about her. Head barely ducked, fists hardly clenched, opaque as the impeccable, incomparable soldier she was, Hawkeye would do as he said.

_How __could __I __have__ cocked it up this badly__? _His relationships with his subordinates were meant to be cleanly detached. Yes, he needed support, but he wasn't supposed to need anyone in particular. It was something Hughes had always scolded him about, Hughes who had helped to shape the popular and mysterious identity that was Colonel Roy Mustang. He'd encouraged the aloof friendliness, and the non-specific amorousness. Mustang was supposed to be well-liked by all of his men, strict but friendly at just the right moments. And he was meant to be popular with women, but not attached to any one in particular (Maes' teasing about getting himself a wife aside, which was a bit of a bittersweet inside joke). Hughes had known all of his weaknesses and affections, and the higher Mustang had moved, the more Hughes emphasized the needed to appear utterly trustworthy and sincere, while never giving away the true objects of his emphatic, loyal devotion. And finally, now that it was much too late, Roy understood: only a sociable man moves up in the military, but those precious to a high-placed official are potential targets. Hughes' gaze, as always, was more far-reaching than his own.

_God__, __but __I__ was __so __obvious__. _As if anyone who'd spent any real time in the company of Hawkeye and Mustang could fail to see that they were the single most important relationship in each other's lives. And, as a direct result of his negligence, the most significant person in the whole of his existence was hostage against him to a monster.

A hostage he saw every day, who he sat across from in the commissary, who was probably home alone in an apartment to which he had the key.

If he acted on the impulse inside him, if he made a spectacle of himself at her door, would she take pity on his weakness, or hate him for it? Probably a bit of both. Most likely, above all else, he'd disappoint her.

He was, after all, the fulcrum on which dreams hinged. She'd been the first to trust him with her future. Then Hughes. Then Breda, Falman, Fuery, Havoc— Dear God, Havoc. What could he say to that man? Had he really ordered him to meet him at the top? Commanded it? What kind of hubris had been pulsing though his veins in that moment? _I __really __am __an __egotistic__ son__-__of__-__a__-__bitch_. Even so, he was the sun around which all these planets revolved. He was their great hope for a bright and shining future. But, right now, he was just a sad little moon, pacing the blocks around Hawkeye's apartment, subject to her gravity, way beyond dreaming of escape velocity.

And there he was: imagining himself at the event horizon, at the point at which he could no longer hold himself back from her. He would go to her, he would order her away, and he would face the end on his own.

And, without her, he would fail.

But then, he couldn't do this without her, could he? Just as she couldn't stand for this to happen if she wasn't by his side, he needed her there. _Of __all __the __awful__, __selfish__... _ And a bit presumptuous, now that he thought of it, believing she wouldn't see straight through him. That she'd actually buy his tough talk, wouldn't notice that his dismissal was intentionally barbed. Her loyalty was not a submissive thing, but defiant. Her obedience was genuine, trustful, and wrapped him ever tighter around her finger. Because she was the strong one. The one who saw everything with eyes calm and clear and certain. _What __the __hell __can __I __do__? _Despite every evil she'd successfully thrashed, he suddenly couldn't bear to have her in harm's way, and yet (simultaneously), he couldn't fathom facing something like this without her at his back.

It wasn't only that Hawkeye _needed_ to be a shield. Even as a hostage, she _was _his shield.

_Asshole__, __moron__, __dumbass __stupid __Colonel__-__shit__-__for__-__brains__, __fuck__... _

He exhaled an unexpected laugh, all sharp breath and disbelief. It would have been better if Fullmetal were around to help him out with the invectives against himself. His own were fairly uncreative. Hawkeye might have invented a few scorchers if he'd dared to haunt her doorstep with his rapping knuckles. But, the idea was close enough for government work.

This was a moment of weakness he'd been glad to experience without an audience. Hawkeye didn't often call him 'idiot,' but when she did he'd always found himself obliged to agree. And now, all alone, and yet as if she was there, he muttered, "Yes, I'm an idiot, I know."

Really, he was not so lost as he felt. She could be the moon, and he, perhaps, the tide. And at the same time, why couldn't he be the sun, the center that so many hopes revolved around?

And wasn't that just _brilliant__?_ The one-time situational genocidist, lost in idealist, juvenile musings? Simplifying things in terms of metaphors (and poor ones at that)? No. There was no cure for this, no angle he could view it from that could make it all right again.

A very grown-up part of him acknowledged that he'd deserve every lump he took. A darker, even more honest part of him acknowledged the same for her. So, so grown up. So jaded. And yet, a part of him would always be the boy he'd been years ago, when he was awkward and uncertain, burning dinner when he tried to do something good.

_This __is __bad__. __This __is __really__, __really __bad__. __Worse __than __it__'__s __ever __been __before__. _For a moment that no one would ever learn of, he was choked by his inadequacies. He gaped at how useless and flawed he was_._

_Was__. _He stalled over the emphasis, until he noted the past tense. Yes. That is who he'd been. But, moving forward, he could be _that_ man. The man to whom she'd entrusted her back. The man, all these years, she'd deserved him to be. That she'd always known he had it in him to become.

It was an artless, clumsy bolstering of his fracturing confidence, but as he leaned against it, it was amazingly strong: She believed in him. He believed in her. Two simple statements of which no one could disabuse him; therefore, he didn't have to believe in himself. He only had to trust her. Trust that she hadn't put her faith in the wrong man. And that made him laugh, because once he took his own feelings toward himself out of the picture, the idea of Hawkeye misjudging anyone was, simply, giggle-inducing, scoff-worthy madness.

Once, he'd confided in her that though he did not believe in Predestination, he feared it. And now he could admit that Hawkeye was a force beyond Fate, or Free Will for that matter. Hawkeye simply _was_. He didn't need to quibble over their meeting, or their subsequent entanglement- didn't need to get dramatic (was only being matter-of-fact) when he said her very existence was now necessary to his own.

"_Two __of __a __kind__, __we __are__, __contrivers__, __both__... __I __that __am__ always __with __you __in __times __of __trial__, __a__ shield __to __you __in __battle__."_

He kept his gloved hands in his pockets. The carefully constructed disarray of his hair obscured his eyes as he tucked his chin and fell into a brisk march, heading for the market district.

The florist was surprised to see him. She didn't have a message to convey to him, but perhaps he had one for her to send along. She masked the confusion expertly, addressing him with the utmost courtesy.

"What a pleasure to see one of my best customers, Mr. Mustang. What can I do for you this evening?"

"I'm going to need a lot of flowers. Everything you've got. Delivered first thing tomorrow to First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye at Central, care of His Excellency, Führer King Bradley."

The better part of her was going to be absolutely furious with him. But, the remaining part?

A familiar, self-assured smirk assumed its rightful place across his lips. "Make sure you send vases."

_End._


End file.
